Snapshots
by Monarch Actual
Summary: A series of one off events that happened in the time before and after the events of A Noble Cause and The Flame of Nobility. Time span ranging from the first day on Reach to years after the conclusion of The Flame of Nobility. Less action, more character growth without a war hanging over our heroine's head. Likely to involve a decent amount of feel good stories.
1. Chapter 1: Hocus Pocus

**Author's Note: This is a series of oneshots, made up of bits and pieces that happened in what I've dubbed the Nobleverse. Kind of a lame name, but I don't actually use it. Anyway, it'll be out of order, and it'll probably jump around as inspiration comes to me. I'd rather upload them all in one collection rather than spreading them across a bunch of single stories. Others have taken the latter route, but I'm a stickler for organization some of the time. The timeline I'm looking at to keep everything bracketed will probably be from the first day with Noble, up to years after the end of The Flame of Nobility, but there won't be very much action compared to the other works. Now the curtain comes up, and away we go.**

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_Date: 3 March, 2553_

_Location: Small town, not far from the ruins of Voi_

The mood was somber in the Officer's Club that had been set up. The UNSC hadn't built one outright, a bar owner in the town instead setting it aside for military use for the time being after certain hours. They would be all gone eventually, but for now, it would fill the owner's pockets and stimulate a small town's economy in ways only service members with a sudden influx of leave and unspent money could.

Plenty of grays and whites filled the area, a few blacks, and even a handful of caps adorned with oak leaf embellishments. It seemed even the brass needed a drink after such an event. Low conversations could be heard faintly, drifting across the air like cigarette smoke. People had split into their cliques, the colors rarely mixing.

One woman sat alone, wearing the gray of a Marine pilot. A second chair was empty across the small table from her, but it wasn't on her mind. The small, round glass came to her lips again, ice cubes clinking faintly as the golden colored liquid inside slid into the woman's mouth. Very little left the glass as she nursed the drink, intent on savoring the fairly expensive scotch. But she had nothing else to spend her money on at the moment, so she'd gone ahead and bought the bottle.

It sat on the table, next to a container with more ice cubes. Brown eyes flickered across it again, more interested in rereading the label than speaking with any of her compatriots, but that was to be expected. They were all here for mostly the same reasons. Drinking with those that lived, drinking to those that didn't, and trying to figure out where they were going from here. None of them really knew what came next.

A bell chimed as the door opened, older hinges squeaking in contrast to the pneumatic doors that populated larger cities. The bar had taken a rustic appearance, and kept the old wooden style door. The woman didn't look up, swirling the whiskey in her glass and glancing at it before downing the rest of it. It was only her second glass, or more like half of her first, drinking it a finger at a time, waiting on a guest.

The chair across from her scraped against the floor, and a white uniformed figure sat down in it, looking uneasy as it squeaked underneath their weight. The woman looked up from her musings, brown eyes meeting green with a smile that was welcoming.

Morgan met Lieutenant Amber 'Hocus' Tyndall's eyes, and returned the smile. Taking her cap off, she set it on the table, the golden oak leaves coating the brim looking dull in the low light. "So, I'm here for that drink, finally. I'm… not much of a drinker," she started off, seeming almost sheepish at her lack of experience.

Amber chuckled, pouring herself another finger of scotch and grabbing for the empty glass that sat waiting to be used. Dropping two larger chunks of ice from the container into the glass, she poured a single finger of the golden alcohol into the glass and slid it closer to Morgan. "First time for everything, ma'am," the pilot replied, her southern drawl colored slightly by the alcohol. Nowhere near drunk, but Hocus was feeling the warmth in her gut. Grabbing at her own glass again after capping the bottle, she took another sip, feeling the warmth of the drink even through the ice and the dilution it brought along.

Morgan hummed, tentatively reaching for the glass and pulling it up to her face. Without thinking, she caught a whiff of the alcohol inside and her nose wrinkled as she pulled it away from her face. Amber stifled a laugh, forcing herself to keep it inside. Of course the Commander wouldn't be ready for it, but she thought better to dive into the deep end and get it over with. Not wanting to be rude, Morgan kept the glass in hand, shaking it a little to swirl the scotch. "This is..."

"A little bit much? Yeah, welcome to the world of drinking, Commander. You'll get used to it."

Morgan frowned, her eyes ticking back down to the glass. "I don't know if I want to, to be honest."

Another chuckle from Hocus, her eyes glittering as they caught the light for a moment. "It's always a bit of a hurdle to get over, but you get used to it pretty quickly. It'll be just like riding a bike."

Morgan's eyebrow raised, but she didn't question it. She wasn't gonna tell Hocus she didn't exactly know how to ride a bike. "Can I just… hold my nose?"

Amber shook her head. "Nope, then that just makes it taste bad in a different way. Takes away some of the good stuff and just makes it burn."

The Spartan stifled a groan. "You're gonna make me regret this," she answered, but decided she needed to take the plunge. A deep breath, an exhale, another half breath, and the glass was to her lips. Enhanced senses picked up the smells that came from the glass, still uncomfortable to her, but she could smell something else now, the smell of pines. But that was all gone as soon as the liquid touched her mouth. It was only a sip, but plenty enough to make her tongue set off alarm bells. The glass returned to the table as she tried to deal with it. Overwhelming bitterness, and heat that hadn't entirely dissipated, filled her mouth. Forcing herself to swallow it quickly, her face crumpled, as if she had just stuffed a lemon into her mouth and bit down on it.

It seemed to only amuse Amber even further, and her laugh escaped from her before she could catch it. A few eyes glanced over, wondering what was going on, but she paid them no mind. Her attention was entirely on the woman in front of her. The pilot interlocked her fingers, propping her elbows on the table and resting her head against her hands. "See? You did just fine, Commander."

Morgan shot daggers at the other woman, huffing at what she had been dragged into. "Definitely regretting it now."

Her laughter subsiding, Amber took another sip of her own drink, feeling the warmth of the whiskey touch the back of her throat before spreading through her stomach. A hum of pleasure, enough experience to stomach it with no issues, the pilot was enjoying herself again. "At least you're here with little old me to keep you company," she teased.

"I feel like you just wanna see what happens when I drink this… stuff," Morgan was almost pouting, and Amber's lips turned up in a smile as she looked over the other woman's face.

"What if I do?"

Morgan's eyes went from mock irritation to questioning. "You're sadistic, you know that?"

"Mm, I try. Am I good at it?"

"Unfortunately."

Morgan picked up the glass again. She might not like it, but she would finish it. She had promised Hocus a drink, and she wouldn't begrudge her that, regardless of how bad it tasted. Another sip, and it was the same reaction, but she could feel the heat making it past her tongue this time, the bitter taste not subsiding in the least, however. Halfway through, only a few more.

"Should I get you some water to better deal with it?" Amber wasn't a complete sadist, even if she enjoyed what she saw.

"No." A Spartan's pride was as strong as the armor they wore.

Amber raised her eyebrows in a 'suit yourself' style gesture, her holding firm. She almost felt bad for laughing at the other woman's struggles, but she couldn't help it. The Spartan seemed almost… innocent in how she was going about it. For once, seeing her out of armor, not hellbent on fighting a losing battle, it was nice.

Morgan set the glass back down, content to let it sit for a little while. "What is it you find enjoyable about this? It tastes awful."

Amber shrugged, her smile still in place. "It helps," she replied, leaving it vague, but that wasn't enough to satiate the larger woman.

"Helps with what?"

"A lot of things. Stress, current events, literally whatever is on your mind. You drink enough, your brain gets a little stupid. Everybody handles it differently, though."

"Stupid how?"

Amber's smile grew a little. It was like answering a child's questions, but it was cute either way. "Things tend to blend together for me. I guess it makes me focus more on the moment than whatever is hanging over me. Lets me get away from thinking about the war and everybody around me. Usually drink alone on leave, but..." She gestured to Morgan. "Now I've got a new drinking buddy."

Morgan groaned again, shaking her head. "What have I let you drag me into?" It was half directed at herself, but she didn't completely mind spending time with someone else, where there wasn't another deployment order or a scramble alarm to attend to. Was this what Hood was talking about when he told her to live her life for the rest of them? She would have to find out.

The two sat in silence for a time, the smile on Amber's face dropping down to something that seemed as if she wasn't trying to hold it, and it was little more than a slight upturn of her mouth. She watched Morgan drift away, the green eyes getting that thousand yard stare as the Spartan seemed to get lost in thoughts she didn't understand. Amber didn't interrupt, sipping at her drink again and draining it once more. She set it back down as gently as she could, and it was barely audible against the din of the murmured conversations in the room, but Morgan's eyes snapped to the glass when it sounded its call. Amber blinked, confused, before realizing her compatriot had been drawn out of her reverie by the glass's sound. That had been unexpected.

"Sorry, I was thinking," the Spartan answered.

Amber shook her head. "That's why the rest of us end up coming here and drinking this poison. It's better than thinking without it."

Morgan frowned slightly, glancing back down at her own drink. The ice had melted down almost completely, raising the level of the liquid a little bit and diluting its color. Taking it up again, she mentally prepared herself, and rather than taking a sip, she finished it off, feeling the drink sting her mouth, and the urge to gag came to her even with the taste of the alcohol muted by the water now making up half of the content in the glass. Grimacing, she set it down, shaking her head.

Wordlessly, Amber held the bottle up, her smile a little bit bigger now. Raising an eyebrow, she gestured to the Spartan.

The dark haired woman seemed to mull it over, lips pursing and making her mouth a thin line. Her head felt a little odd, as if she was feeling the effects of exhaustion, or a minor concussion. It hadn't been much, had it? Was it bad to try another? Amber wasn't having any problems, and she was much smaller. Surely it would be okay for one more.

Morgan nodded, almost hesitant, and Amber poured her another two fingers worth of the alcohol, dropping two more chunks of ice into the glass with it. There was still plenty of the golden liquid in the bottle, almost three quarters of it still settling as the glass was put back on the table. "Gonna help me finish this bottle off?"

Morgan's face contorted so quickly, Amber thought she had just thrown up and kept her mouth shut, but the Spartan hadn't, and she shook her head. "No, please no," she said, almost pleading in a way.

Amber shrugged, her smile evolving into a smirk. "Didn't think so. More for me then."

The two continued their drinking, with Morgan eventually finishing her second glass, feeling the buzz in her head grow stronger over time. Her vision was blurring, she was feeling dizzy, and she had grown used to the taste, at least. That didn't mean anything good, as far as she was concerned.

Speaking again, her words were slightly slurred, just enough for Amber to notice through her far lighter buzz. She had spent the last decade drinking this stuff, having picked up a bottle when she was 16 to drown out the image of her father, killed when the UNSC _Krakatoa_ had been lost with all hands during a battle over Kholo. It was something she hadn't thought about in years, for better or for worse. Looking to Morgan, she crossed her arms, leaning against the table. "How are you feeling?"

Morgan shook her head, trying to focus her eyes on the other woman when it felt like all they wanted to do was force themselves to do anything but that. "My head feels like it's filled with water."

A gentle smile from the pilot and she closed the bottle up, pulling the empty glass back from the Spartan. "I think you might have had enough then. I don't want you to black out on me and freak out. Some people don't handle their booze all too well."

A nod from the other woman, not complaining about the drink being done and over with. "I don't know if I wanna do this again, if I can be honest."

A chuckle and a nod. "A lot of people don't want to after their first time. I hadn't expected you to drink at all."

"I made a promise," Morgan replied, a hint of fire entering her voice. She didn't break her promises.

Holding her hands up, Amber defended her words. "I know you did, no problems there."

Morgan hummed, leaning forward and closing her eyes as she put her arms on the table and rested her head on them. Amber watched as the other woman seemed to shut down, and took her face in. She had seen Morgan's face before, but even now, there were new scars, hair that was slightly shorter than it was the last time she had been seen without armor, and an air of exhaustion that Spartans seemed too strong to give off. It saddened the pilot, in a sense. She had never expected Spartans to be like Morgan, but she had only ever met two, and the Chief was dead and gone as far as she knew. He wasn't much of a talker before anyway.

Amber didn't say anything, content to sit and watch, and simply wait. Her own buzz was in her mind, but nowhere near as effective as Morgan's. They both sat there for what seemed like hours, but was probably only one encompassing the entire time they had been in there together. For a while, Amber had thought the Spartan had fallen asleep, but the sound of a chair scraping as a Marine got up and made his way out had both green eyes open, already searching Amber's face to see if she needed to be alert.

"Sleep well?" Amber asked the question dryly, eyebrow raised.

Morgan didn't answer, closing her eyes again for a moment before she sat back up. "Not really."

"Seemed like you were out like a light."

"I sleep lightly," she answered, a grimace taking its place on her face. Her head still bothered her, and the conversation in the bar was starting to grate on her nerves, not to mention the smell of cigarette smoke, acrid and cloying. "Can we go somewhere else?"

Amber nodded, grabbing the bottle and the two glasses. Returning them to the barkeeper, she kept the bottle and went back to Morgan. "Yeah, let's get out of here. Where are you staying?"

"Officer's quarters, same as you."

"I should have known. Come on, I'll hold your hand."

"Please?" Morgan asked.

Amber chuckled, nodding. "I would have told you to say please, but you beat me to it."

Amber didn't obviously reach for the taller woman's hand, but she did grab her hat, handing it over and letting the Spartan put it back on before the big woman lumbered out of her chair, seeming to struggle to keep her balance for a moment. Amber did end up grabbing the crook of her arm, but it wasn't needed for long, the Spartan pointing at the door without a word as she shook her head again.

The two left the bar without any problems, the sun having fallen further, almost below the horizon. Street lights had turned on, and the sky was a faint gray, bordering on a slate color. There was still some natural light, but not for long. It was a slow walk, Morgan seeming to take deliberate steps and make sure to keep her balance, but she looked frustrated by it, something that Amber found amusing in a way, like watching a dog wearing shoes try to walk while not used to it.

Neither said anything, content to walk together in silence. Other service members were seen from time to time, sober and otherwise, a lot of them wearing fatigues now. A prefab city had come into place for those that had returned from the portal to live in while everything was fixed and new orders came in. Now, with the official cessation of hostilities, there were bound to be large amounts of outgoing troopers leaving the city soon, and likely the two women doing the same.

Amber walked the streets with the Spartan, until the figure of the officers quarters came into view, painted by the street lamp, several lights on in multiple windows, others dark, some with curtains pulled closed. It had been a hotel before the troopers came in, and with the area being cordoned off, only those that lived in the area remained, in their own homes and businesses.

There was no need to stop by the desk as they stepped out of the cooling temperatures and into the climate controlled hotel, both of them already holding keys to their rooms. Amber escorted Morgan to her room, and upon being told where it was, found the room number.

With Morgan unlocking the door, Amber looked up at her. "Are you gonna be alright? You'll need to drink some water before you go in and go to sleep."

Morgan seemed to blank for a moment, the alcohol having had plenty of time to absorb into her bloodstream. "I… I think so."

Amber's mouth puckered up, as if unsatisfied with an 'I think so'. "Do you need some help?"

"Please?"

A nod, and Morgan entered the room, unsure of where to go from there. Amber looked around, the halls empty, and stepped in after her, shutting the door with a muted click. Looking around the room as she stepped further inside, she realized there was nothing that would have pointed it out aside from any of the other rooms except for a ship bag that likely held her clothes. No personal items or decorations whatsoever.

A frown and a pang of sadness. Even Amber had multiple personal effects on her half of the room she shared with another pilot. But Morgan had nothing, an empty room that was supposed to be home, but seemed far from it.

Breaking away from her inspection, she saw that Morgan was already sitting on the bed, her uniform tunic already dropped onto the bed and her hat laying on top of it as she struggled to untie perfectly laced shoes. Amber's frown grew, and she moved over to the other woman, grabbing her hands and taking them away from the shoes. "I'll get it."

And she did. Setting her bottle down, it took her only a moment to untie the shoes, getting a knot undone with ease and setting them both on the floor below. Left in only the uniform pants, belt, and the undershirt, Morgan seemed almost ready for sleep. A glance at the ship bag in the corner, and she realized that it probably wasn't anything more than fatigues inside. "Do you have anything else to wear?"

Green eyes came up to look at brown counterparts. "Fatigues."

Amber nearly groaned. The poor thing had wore only fatigues for months, and likely only ever worn them outside of armor or dress whites. Civilian clothes seemed to be so far out of the Spartan's purview that Amber should have seen it coming from a mile away. "What do you sleep in? Fatigues?" A shake of the head. "What do you wear then?"

"I don't."

Amber's eyes narrowed, and she felt herself growing frazzled slowly. This was going a route that she didn't expect. Fraternization was allowed by the UNSC, simply due to the methods that Marines and other combat personnel used to decompress when deployed in the field. She had used the method plenty of times in the past, but she didn't want it getting out that she was with someone several ranks higher than her, and a Spartan to boot, even if nothing had happened. Rumor mills were brutal.

"Alright, here, let's get your jacket hung up and your pants off, then you can finish the rest on your own, alright?"

Morgan rubbed at her eyes, sighing, but nodded. She was quickly getting tired. Amber moved in, unbuckling the uniform belt and sliding it out of the loops, before setting it on the dresser beneath the television that sat against the wall. The pants came next, revealing Morgan had wore the standard issue undershorts that the UNSC gave out to both male and female service members. That was to be expected.

Taking the pants and folding them, as if by instinct, the pants joined the belt, and then the jacket and hat. Finally, the undershirt was all that was left, a skin tight, sleeveless shirt that went all the way to the waistband of the shorts. Amber realized that there was far more muscle in the Spartan than she had expected, the shirts normally just being enough to sit against her skin without any looseness, but Morgan's shirt revealed that her entire body was covered in muscle, as if sculpted from a block of marble. Scars, both surgical and battle made, crawled across her exposed arms and legs, still just as toned as the woman's chest.

With her job done, Amber stepped back, spotting a disposable cup on the nightstand. Grabbing at it, she realized it was empty, and it looked clean. "I'll be right back." A disinterested grunt, and Amber was in the bathroom a moment later, filling the cup with water from the bathroom sink. She returned just as quickly, sitting next to Morgan on the bed. "Here, drink this. It'll help you in the morning."

Morgan looked over, searching the pilot's face for a moment before doing as she was told without complaint. Taking it, Amber set the cup back down where it had come from, in case the Spartan woke up during the night. "You should be good for the night. If there's anything you need from me, I'll..." Thinking quickly, Amber glanced around the room. A datapad sat on the bedside table, something in each hotel room, and she opened it to a document writer, quickly writing out her room number and the address to contact it. "If you need anything, you can reach me there, alright?"

Morgan nodded, her shoulders sagging. "I will."

Amber gave a hint of a smile, nodding in semi-satisfaction. "You might get Sugar instead. We're sharing a room. You remember her, right?" A nod. "Good. She'll either wake me up or she'll help you herself. I'll make sure she knows what's going on. So..." She floundered for a moment, half wanting to leave and prevent an awkward silence, but also half wanting to stay just in case. "I'll just be a message away. Goodnight, Morgan."

"G'night."

Amber grabbed her booze and started to walk away from the Spartan, getting to the light switch and hitting it to send the room into darkness.

"Hocus."

Turning back and looking at where the Commander was laying in bed, the sound of fabric could be heard hitting the floor faintly, the bed shifting and blankets being pulled over. "Thank you, for today."

"Any time, Six. Sleep well."

The door was open and shut without any other words passing between the two, and Amber was back in her room in a matter of minutes, her room on the floor below. When she entered, a light skinned woman sat on one of the two beds, wearing actual pajamas, her legs crossed as she held a bag filled with some snack foods in her hands and her terminal sat in front of her. A sharp jaw and rounded eyes, skin kissed by the sun, and hair left in a loose pony tail were the first features that Amber saw, but she knew them well enough by now anyway.

Another pair of brown eyes met the newcomer's, and an earbud left the woman's left ear, raising an eyebrow. "I figured you'd be back sooner."

"I'm home before curfew, mom," Amber answered, smiling at the other pilot, whose eyes were rolling in reply.

"Little long to be drinking alone, isn't it?"

"_Little long to be drinking alone, isn't it?"_ she replied in a mocking tone, before she went on. "What's it matter to you, anyway? You were too busy to drink with me so I had to find someone else."

"_Oooh, _you found _someone else_, huh?"

"Yeah, I did. Speaking of which, if I'm asleep and we get a message from room 422, that's my someone else. They've had their first taste of alcohol and they're a bit of a light weight, if you catch my drift. You know her, so you can either wake me up or answer it yourself."

"I'll just wake you up."

"That works. I'm going to get some sleep." Putting her bottle in the small refrigerator in the room, Amber got ready for bed, her uniform being switched out for a tanktop and pajama pants that gave her a sigh of relief. Sliding into bed came next, the heavy blanket coming over her and wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. The lamp next to Sugar's bed went out, but the blue light from her terminal continued to shine. At least it was quiet.

Amber laid there for a time, until the light went out on Sugar's terminal and she heard the other woman preparing for her own sleep. There was plenty to think about, most of all how to acclimate the Spartan towards living normally. It would be a long road, and she wasn't sure if she would be there for all of it…

But she wanted to be.

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**Author's note: I'm not much of a drinker, so I had to base this off of my own experience and hit up my alcoholic friend for whiskey advice. Either way, I enjoyed writing this, and I hope you guys like what I'm bringing to the table to fulfill my little chapter 2 promise.**


	2. Chapter 2: A New Chapter

Morgan Bailey – her new name – watched as a pair of armorers worked to prep her armor for storage. It was in another heavy steel vault, not unlike the one that had housed her Mark VI armor when she'd received it on the _Cairo_ only a few months before. Now, with no fatigues and no dress uniform to wear, she stood in civilian clothes, what could be described business casual. Black pants and a white button up shirt, the sleeves on it rolled up to provide her some semblance of the tightness that came from rolled up fatigue sleeves.

The golden visor that she had hid behind, that had reflected all of those gazes away from her, was now staring back at her. Green eyes were turned on their owner, and she saw herself tinted gold. There was no reaching out to brush her fingers against the armored chest plate, having been repainted sometime after she'd returned and removed it. Despite having been in civilian clothes for two weeks now, they still didn't feel right, and she longed to slip back into the tech suit and feel it cover her like a second skin.

But it wasn't an option now. With no war to fight, and the abuse she had put on her body over the years catching up to her, she wanted to rest. Near constant fighting from Reach until the end of the war had taken its toll, and while she could still outdo any Marine currently serving, she'd discovered that she didn't really want to. She was still young, and her body would heal, but it would need time.

A hand in front of her caught her attention, and her eyes followed it back to the person who owned it. The Master Gunnery Sergeant that had been almost like her own personal armorer retracted his hand. "You gonna be alright leaving her here with us, Commander? We'll take good care of her, y'know."

Morgan pursed her lips slightly, before looking back to the visor as the armorer's two assistants closed the doors on the vault and it locked itself up. "Don't have much of a choice, Guns. I'm not a soldier anymore. I don't need it."

"Lotsa people gettin' out, ma'am. You're not the only one feeling it. Hell, plenty of people have been alive and this war is all they've known. Now they're going home and they ain't gonna know what to do."

Morgan turned away from the armor's vault, crossing her arms across her chest. Even out of the armor, she was a head taller than the Master Gunnery Sergeant and a little wider in the shoulders. "This war is all _I've_ known, and _I_ don't know what to do."

The older man shrugged as the armor was taken away. "It's gonna be tough. Always has been. Even soldiers coming back from war after a year or two deployed in the past struggled with it, but it's never been this bad." Any hint of the normally amused tone he had was gone, replaced by the musings of a tired old man. "You just gotta take it one day at a time, Commander."

Morgan grimaced, her hands grabbing at her arms to stop herself from wanting to wring them. "I'm not even a commander anymore, just a… civilian."

Master Guns frowned. "Does that mean that just because you're retired, you're not a Spartan?"

That caught her attention, and she hesitated for a moment. "No. I'm still a Spartan. I'll still do what they need me to, if they ever call for me." Her voice had started off questioning itself, but now it was hard, confident, full of conviction that if they ever called her back to the military, she would go in a heartbeat.

"Then you can use some of that Spartan toughness and tenacity to keep going, and be a good civilian too, live a life for those that don't get to."

She felt like a child again under the old man's hard look, as if she were being admonished. She didn't exactly like it, but it was helping somewhat. "That's what Hood said, to keep going for those that can't."

He nodded in response. "It might seem impossible, but last I checked, you've done the impossible. Rumors passed through the ship while we were on the Ark. One of the medics that was in the strike force with you and the Chief said that you were more or less KIA. You went cardiac, had a nasty concussion, and some messed up ribs. I saw what happened to your armor. Don't tell me that going through all you did at the end, being a civilian is too hard for you."

She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. "But I _know_ how to fight, how to push pain away, that's always been what I was meant to do. To fight until I couldn't, to give the rest of you more time. I don't know how to be a civilian. I don't even know what to do."

Despite her issue with moving to civilian life, Master Guns gave her a small smile. "You'll figure it out as you go, I promise. You'll learn how to use a washing machine, a vacuum, a microwave. It'll all come to you in time. But my biggest piece of advice? Don't shut yourself away when you get out. If you hide inside wherever you end up living, you'll only make yourself a husk, not truly living your life."

His smile dropped during the last portion, and he sighed. Their time was coming to an end, and he held out his hand to her. When she grabbed it, his other hand came up, sandwiching her hand between his own two. "Be safe, don't drink and drive, don't put metal in the microwave, and don't forget to make some friends while you're out."

Morgan bit the inside of her lip, and nodded. "I'll try, and Guns? What's your name?"

The armorer's smile returned. "Name's Joe."

"Morgan, then," she returned. "Your rank is too much of a mouthful to say all the time."

"You won't have to worry about it too much more then. I'll be seeing you, Morgan." Releasing her hand, he stepped back, and gave her one last salute that she returned, before he moved past her and followed after her armor, wherever it went.

Left alone, Morgan licked her lips and contemplated all of it. There was plenty to do, and at the same time, she had no idea how to do it, but she would figure it out one way or another. Turning, she went the opposite direction that Joe, the Master Gunnery Sergeant, had gone.

The interior passed by without her realizing what most of it looked like, merely taking the turns that she remembered. It was all the same as every other base anyway. Stepping out into the mid-day sun, it did little to ease her mood, warming her skin but nothing else.

There was a ride waiting for her, a Marine in olive drab fatigues in the driver's seat of an unarmed Warthog with an armored box in the place of the gun. It was a logistics variant, capable of transporting fuel, ammunition, even double as a medical vehicle. All that was inside now was a single duffle bag filled with everything she owned. At the sound of the doors swishing open, the Marine quickly finished the cigarette he had been nursing, waving his hand through the air to try and dispel some of the smoke as she climbed up and into the passenger seat.

"Ma'am," he greeted. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, settling back into the seat and putting on the seatbelt, something she'd never really done before in her life when it came to the FAVs. "Ready, corporal."

With a nod, the corporal put the Warthog into gear and the big vehicle lurched as its engine fed power through the transmission to the wheels, but it was infinitely more gentle than any Warthog ride she had ever taken before. She still couldn't get over how hard the seats felt. They were cushioned, and there was give to them, but her armor had always made them deform far more.

Regardless of her musings as she stared through the windshield, the core of UNSC Installation Camp Fordison passed by in a mix of artificial grays and silvers. Distant mountains rolling over the landscape in a sea of green contrasted heavily, and caught her eyes when she wasn't sure what else to look at.

The only stop they made was at the exit gate to the complex, where a gate guard let them through without a second glance. It was new, she thought, not being stared at for her size or for her armor's intimidating appearance. As far as she could tell, the guard had only seen a woman in civilian clothes leaving the base. Her skin was no longer deathly pale, her bruises had healed and scars had faded with her skin's color change, and there was no uniform. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, if she was being honest with herself.

But it didn't matter all too much, and she settled in for the short ride to the airport that even now was preparing to board and transport her to her new home. The trip passed in silence, and 20 minutes later, she was stepping back onto asphalt, the Marine having already gotten out and grabbed her bag for her.

Handing it over, he stepped back and made to get back in the Warthog, waving goodbye and wishing her well, before she was alone again. People continued to walk past as if nothing had changed, not even sparing her a second glance. She was surrounded, but still well and truly alone. Swallowing, she dug into the bag and pulled out her boarding pass and the small collection of cards and documents she had, all kept in a case that protected the things inside from harm. One more last gift from Master Guns. If she couldn't have armor for her, she would have it for the things that were most important for the time being.

Shouldering the bag, she kept the case in a steely grip, careful not to squeeze too hard and bend or damage it. Inside, her boarding pass, her registration for a decommissioned transport Warthog and its key, new identification, and financial assets were kept hidden away, as well as the information on the new home that had been given to her.

All of it had been read over and memorized a dozen times, and she didn't need to look at any of it, but having it in her hands was a reinforcement, a comfort when there were no others. A frown, and she stowed all but the boarding pass away.

Stepping into the terminal, there were dozens of people in the immediate vicinity, and unknown numbers of others in line of sight. It wasn't a small terminal by any means, and air travel was still one of the primary methods to getting around the planet.

She could feel eyes on her, could feel her scars being taken in, and she suddenly felt the urge to pull the sleeves on her shirt down and cover it all up. The shirt she wore was a thin material, see through, revealing the white undershirt. It had the top button undone, but all that showed was her neck, slender but still thick enough to reveal it was heavily muscled like the rest of her body. The material all hugged her body in its own way, form fitting and a thin barrier against the rest of the world.

Forcing the feelings down, the trip to her gate was quick, long legs eating up the distance as she avoided all those that she could, keeping her distance from those she couldn't. Her boarding pass was on the counter as soon as she finished her stint in a short line, and the woman at the counter thankfully didn't try to make conversation with the Spartan. That left her to take no more than a minute to be sorted, and she was free to scurry for her transport.

Passing a small sea of chairs and people, she took the case and a small carry on out of her bag, dumping them into a scanner for airport security, who waved her through with a cursory glance at her baggage, seeing it was little more than clothes and a case of metal objects. They took the case out, spotting a throng of medals that got more than a few eyes from those waiting behind her and the men working the desk. Morgan felt the discomfort rising, and they must have caught on, because the case was closed and stowed, and she was waved through with little fanfare.

A sigh of relief, and the bag was dumped onto a baggage carousel before disappearing through a hole in the wall. That left her with the carry on bag, a black satchel that was smaller than the normal size, something that Hocus and Sugar had taken her to get after she had officially retired. A small smile came to her face as she remembered the two pilots forcing her along on a small outing.

The two had helped her with not only arranging her finances – not without having an eye watering reaction at the sum that UNSC financiers had quickly thrown together given her time in the military without pay – but also helping her learn to use her cards, helping her find clothes that not only fit but looked good on her, and showing her what it was like being a civilian. It had been a long day that left even her tired, but she would remember it always, and she hoped that one day she could repay the two women for their kindness.

Thinking about them had her missing the contact that they had brought, and though it had only been a few weeks, it felt like it had been years. Both had been reassigned not long after their outing, sent off to a land base with the Home Fleet being ripped to shreds, and only the _Aegis Fate_ and _Ode to Autumn_ being left, both requiring rearm and refit. She had their contact information, however, and she would contact them as soon as she had settled in.

Breaking out of her reverie, the signs on the walls had called for her flight to board, and she set her sights on the gate, where people were already stepping through, guided by a flight attendant who seemed to have a glued on smile, a face carved from a sandy ceramic. Freckles dusted her cheeks, and brown eyes looked over them with a light that didn't quite mimic the smile on her face. Morgan made her way through and avoided the eyes, feeling uncomfortable under that gaze.

She was a little too tall for the transport, nearly bumping her head on the ceiling and having to walk through the central tube with her head bowed until she made it to the seat that had been assigned to her, a window seat. Stowing her bag, she moved down to the seat, frowning at the leg room that was just a little too short for her liking. Regardless, she hunkered down and leaned against the wall, staring out at the tarmac where other transports were lining up for takeoff. They all looked the same, most of them aerodynamic wedges, a flying wing design that modern technology allowed to work flawlessly compared to older designs.

People boarded behind her, joining those already settled in, and Morgan tried not to pay attention to the man who slotted in next to her. Luckily, he seemed like he wasn't interested in conversation either.

Takeoff came quickly, with the transport taxiing, lining up, and finally rocketing down the runway before rotating and taking to the sky. It was almost nonexistent for the Spartan, having undergone plenty of takeoffs, even if most of them were from the hovering form of a Pelican, or the cockpit of a Sabre.

A three hour flight followed the take off, and Morgan spent most of it with her eyes glued to the window. Something about the landscape below had her gaze locked on, finally able to experience flight without the threat of war looming over her, without feeling as if she would be shot down at any moment. She had undergone too many crash landings in her time to want another one now or ever again.

Plains passed by, a patchwork of colors, forests and fields slipping in, cracked by the blues of rivers and the mirror surfaces of lakes. Mountains rose up to claw at the transport, but always falling short, unable to latch on to the transport and the Spartan it carried, but always close enough for Morgan to see individual trees, to see the rivers that flowed down their sides, even seeing a single smoke column, a camp site with a small fire burning in its midst. Maybe camping would be good if she ever got her bearings.

Her thoughts ran wild with the lack of anything but the constant sound of the turbofans to the rear of the transport, just barely loud enough to be heard through a sound proofed hull, but she heard them all the same.

What would she do now? She didn't need a job or income. She was set for life. How did one make friends when you weren't forced to see them? All of her friends had been in the military, had been Spartans or the few Marines that had cropped up at the end, but they had all fought together, nearly died together, it was easy to make connections like that. But civilians? How would she talk to them? None of them knew what she was, and hopefully never would. Not all of them would be former military, wouldn't understand, would gawk and stare, countless other reactions. What if they all saw her as a freak? She knew she was far above average in size, in muscular bulk, and she would seem stupid not knowing even simple things. How would she deal with all of it? It seemed harder and harder by the second to figure out how she would keep her promise to Lord Hood and to Master Guns – Joe. She needed to call him Joe. - What would she do?

She didn't have too much time to decide, as already the transport was dropping altitude, and the flight attendant announced landing would happen shortly. The ground rose up to meet them, grass gave way to urban sprawl, and a sea of buildings crowded around another airport, tarmac acting as if it was a lake in the middle of this steel forest. The sound of wheels screeching, brakes kicking in, and deceleration all came together to put the transport at another terminal, much like the first.

People stood before it was their time to disembark, a problem that had never died off in the hundreds of years since air travel had become prevalent. Morgan remained seated, more than content to get off last.

With her carry on in hand, and a few minutes later, the rest of her items, she left the terminal. Her thoughts continued to weigh on her as she pulled the key to her Warthog from the armored case. Stepping out into the light, cars were coming in and out, an endless tide as people were dropped off or picked up. Buses and vans filled the same role, with multiple people at a time. Past the road that stood between her and her vehicle was a parking lot filled with other cars, most of them looking as if they were smaller luxury vehicles, but she could see what was hers even from here.

An empty space in the parking lot showing the massive transport Warthog, dwarfing the other vehicles and taking up two parking spaces on its own, and still managing to hang its rear out into the lane that allowed cars to transit through the parking lot. It was a big vehicle, and it showed, now that she saw it next to others. This variant had been decommissioned, all sensitive gear taken out. No more blue force tracker, no more IFF receivers, transponder beacons, all of it taken back by the UNSC. It still retained its satellite uplink feed for navigation, but that was a standard on many vehicles these days, a holdover from trying to track the insurrection before the Covenant had come. There was no gun, and the normally open bed that would transport Marines was covered by a steel box, much like the logistics variant that she had rode in on her way out of Camp Fordison. Doors had been added as well, and they would swing forward on hinges that attached to the front fenders. Finally, the towing assembly had been left intact, just in case.

Making her way over, she dumped her bag into the passenger seat and walked around, slipping into the driver's seat and pushing the key into the ignition. Cranking it, she didn't pull away immediately as the vehicle roared to life, drawing more than a few eyes to the tinted windshield. She sat there for a moment, hands in her lap, and looked around.

There was no rush, she realized. No time table to keep, no strike plan that revolved around her being in a certain place at a certain time, no threat to extinction. These thoughts came to her more and more as the days went on. It almost didn't seem real, seemed like a dream, and any moment, she would wake up on Reach again. She still saw it in her mind sometimes, a flash of the Aszod Shipbreaking Yards where she had made what she thought would be her final stand.

Swallowing, she frowned and forced her hands up to the wheel. She had a drive ahead of her, at least an hour if she didn't get lost. One hand went to the navigational system in the center of the dashboard, swiping away the engine metrics and pulling up the route that she had to follow. Leaving the city she was in, the hub for the region, she would head further north, up into a small town that would be her home for the foreseeable future, if not for the rest of her life. A population of 30,000 with a small airport nestled in between two mountain groups, it would be isolated but not hidden by any means. Less people meant she would stick out. Too many was far from preferable. She would be fine with this.

She hoped.

An hour's drive in silence passed by much like all of the trees and other cars, gone by in a blur as she focused on the route and keeping herself out of her thoughts. She made one stop, not long after leaving the airport, to get water. Two bottles would last her easily enough, and she sipped at them during the trip.

Urban landscapes disappeared in the rear view mirror, and a more rural appearance took over, with her elevation increasing ever so slightly as she drove. At one point, a winding road suddenly lurched up in elevation, and she was in the new area she would call her own.

Empty roads led into a decent sized town. Homes filled the outer rim as the town flowed through the valley between two lines of mountains, greenery contrasting with the earthen tones of the materials that covered metal construction. Larger buildings in the center of the town gained several stories on the rest, but nothing near the skyscrapers of the city she had landed in, and she could see the air traffic control tower in the distance, backdropped by a bank of fog that seemed to be rolling in from the opposite end of the valley.

Cars passed her on the opposite side of the road, and others lined in behind her, some taking up positions in front of her as she tended to the Warthog and navigated it through areas it was never truly meant to go through. A possibility, but a difficult one. Eyes followed the vehicle as it passed through the town, most unused to seeing such a large vehicle outside of the broadcasts that were shown online or on television.

She ignored all of it, and after another half hour of slipping through the narrow streets of the town, Morgan felt it all slip behind her once again, taking a side road that traveled up the side of one of the mountains. Multiple houses built here were larger, intended for families in the upper middle class, rather than the smaller single story houses in the suburbs around the town. The road continued to wind and twist as it went up, until she spotted the home that was hers.

Pulling into a white concrete driveway, the Warthog settled to a stop, and the engine died. Its driver stepped out and took her first look at the place, comparing it to what the details on the place said in her notes. Two stories, four rooms, two bathrooms, a garage, plenty of space behind it, utilities, and more. The place was furnished, at least, having been included in the cost of the home. Looking around, other houses looking similar, but slightly different, were up and down the road, equally spaced as if they had been built from a template. A hundred feet sat between each house's walls, the halfway point making up the property line. One was directly across the street from her, and another of those small cars was sitting in the driveway. Nobody was outside, but that was to be expected.

The sky was starting to darken and the sun starting to set. Pursing her lips, Morgan moved around to the side and grabbed her bag out of the Warthog before shutting it and walking towards the front door. Nearly forgetting, she turned back to lock the Warthog, and made her way to the door. It was locked as well, but her notes reminded her that yet another secret lie waiting. Underneath a small stone in the corner of the walkway, where a bordered plot of soil sat untended, a key came out of a false bottom. Opening the glass screen door, she slotted the key into the lock on the sturdier main door and let herself in.

Unpacking would come later, and she simply went into the main room and put her bags down, before sitting on one of the too-soft couches, and contemplating her life.

It seemed like she sat there for an eternity, simply staring at the black screen mounted on the wall in front of her. It reflected her face, and she felt like she was staring straight through it. Who was that staring back at her? It looked so different. The armor was gone, her hair was starting to grow back the way it had been, it didn't look dead anymore. A hand came up to her face, and as her fingers pressed against skin that had gotten more sunlight than it had in years, a ring passed through the house, a deep chime that seemed to echo endlessly, and made her jump, reaching for a gun on her hip that wasn't there.

She stared at the door, broken from her reverie, and forced herself to breathe. What was that? A knock came, and a muffled voice. "_Hello? Is anyone home?"_

Morgan's eyes narrowed, and she stood, creeping for the door in a combat glide that had been muscle memory for so many years now. Her hand came to rest on the knob, and she swallowed, before opening it

On the opposite side of the glass door, an older woman stood, likely in her late forties. Chestnut hair fell around her shoulders, curled in such a way as to seem like it had been made like that. Aged skin was still soft and supple looking, if a little marred by wrinkles, the woman having a little more weight on her, giving her a cherubic appearance with slightly round cheeks and a round face. Blue eyes looked at Morgan, bordered by crow's feet, and the smile on her face gave way to one of minor shock as she realized she had to look up at the Spartan and see just how big she was.

She recovered quickly, her smile coming back and her eyes narrowing as she gave a little wave. "Hi! My name's Kris, I live just across the road here!" Pointing at the house that Morgan had looked at, directly across from her, the woman, Kris, went on. "I saw you walk in and I assumed that you're the one who finally bought the house. I wanted to introduce myself."

Morgan stared at her for a few seconds, before her hand went up to the door knob and opened it slowly, stepping outside. Green eyes glanced around, searching for threats that weren't there, before finally settling on the woman again. "Yes ma'am, this is my home now."

Kris' smile increased a little as she waited for Morgan to say more, but when she didn't the smile seemed to falter slightly, before she got a hold of it. Blue eyes looked over the Spartan in a heartbeat, taking it all in, when she realized that this new neighbor of hers was large, muscular, and full of scars. She had been a soldier, and the way she was talking seemed to reinforce that. Short, clipped speech was a trademark of it. Plenty had come back to the town since the war's end, and even more hadn't made it back.

"I… I see. Well, I don't wanna be a bother at all, but if you need anything while you're settling in, I'm always home. Just come and knock on the door and I'll come running." She gave a breathy little chuckle that seemed awkward more than anything, and Morgan forced a smile of her own.

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind." Morgan thought for a moment, before she held her hand up, doing what the others had all done, what Stacker and Master Guns had done. "Morgan."

The little woman's light grew a bit brighter, and she took the massive hand, barely able to get her fingers around the width of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you!" White teeth showed through as her smile widened, and Kris pulled back. "Like I said, just pop over if you need anything! Good luck with the new house!"

Without much more to say, Kris backed away, taking a few steps before turning and making her way down the driveway and back to her own home. When she made it back, she looked back at Morgan's door, the door having shut and the woman having disappeared without a sound, and her smile disappeared completely as she pondered it.

Inside her home again, Morgan was still at the door, having not moved, instead watching through the peep hole as Kris went home. When the older woman shut the door to her own home behind her, Morgan finally stepped away.

That had been new, in a way. Nobody ever went out of their way to approach a Spartan unless they needed something. But she wasn't a Spartan anymore, was she? Well, she was, but not actively. Now, she was just Morgan.

Returning to her couch, the big woman sunk down into it, her thoughts wrapping around this new encounter. This woman was her neighbor. Did that mean they were friends? Was she just introducing herself to see who Morgan was? Or was she serious about needing anything and coming to her?

With a shrug, Morgan pushed it back down inside of her. She would give it the benefit of the doubt. She had to force herself to stop ripping everything apart and questioning it all as if she was under constant threats. As far as she was concerned, this woman, Kris, was her first new friend as a civilian.

A new chapter had been opened in Morgan's life, however small and short it would be before giving way to yet another.


End file.
